


if this city will bloom

by RennieOnIceCream (Hitsugi_Zirkus)



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Chubby Katsuki Yuuri, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Flower Spirit!Yuuri, Fluff, Introspection, M/M, Magical Realism, also feat. dancing and tiny tea cups, it's actually really sweet despite the painful bits i swear
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-30
Updated: 2017-04-30
Packaged: 2018-10-25 22:03:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,990
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10773372
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hitsugi_Zirkus/pseuds/RennieOnIceCream
Summary: “Viktor, do you know what cherry blossoms mean?”“What they mean?” Viktor tilts his head, surprised at the sudden question.“They can mean beauty. Or a good education. Cherry blossoms generally bloom around the time the new school year starts.” Yuuri’s eyes are unwavering on Viktor, and the colors shift in the dark irises again. “But they also mean impermanence.”Impermanence-- transient. Not lasting forever.The word sends a ripple of fear through Viktor.(Or, the story where Viktor accidentally brings home a cherry blossom spirit from Japan, and his life and heart are turned upside-down.)





	if this city will bloom

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, friends! Welcome to my Sakura AU. I had this idea in my head for a fan project that I hope to join buuuut I decided I want to write it now while it was still springtime. I know cherry blossom season has ended but I still couldn’t resist writing this. I hope that this is enjoyable to read! I had “Sakura Color” by Greeeen on repeat as I wrote this, and it’s where the fic title comes from. Please listen if you can! :D
> 
> By the way, when Viktor decides to name Yuuri, Yuuri interprets it as “百合 (yuri)” which means “lily”, which of course sounds the same as “勇利 (yuuri)”, his actual canon name. Just some casual Japanese homonym-play lol.
> 
> ALSO I fiddled with the timeline a little. In this fic, Viktor performs “Stammi Vicino” in another country, and doesn’t skate in Japan until the next season’s Worlds Championship.

It’s a pleasure trip to Japan at the beginning of April, and Viktor doesn’t mean to _actually_ bring the cherry blossom all the way back to St. Petersburg.

He enjoys sightseeing when he visits other countries, loves visiting the local bars until his lips are sticky-sweet with their alcohol, and only laughs when faced with the predicament of trying to stuff all his wrapped souvenirs and gifts for Yakov, Christophe, and Yuri into his bags when it’s time to leave. Somehow though, in the midst of flooding his Instagram with tourist-y photos of Japanese castles, shrines, and cuisine, and his bags with shopping, he feels like he’s going to leave the country empty-handed.

Viktor -- as much as he lives on the ice, carving his own blood and sweat with his skates until his joints crack and feet are battered, knowing he has to blossom to a spectacle for the audience, his fans, his country -- goes through his days in search of the next indulgence, the next piece of materialism to drown himself in. The off-season brings the worst of these urges, when Viktor no longer has intense practice to distract him and Yakov’s watchful eye to keep him on the straight-and-narrow. The media eases up on the microscope he’s shoved under during the colder months, and time is allotted for Viktor to live his life.

He’s not entirely sure if he’s exactly doing the last part right, but he’s been searching at the bottom of his sake cup for the past thirty minutes for an answer. He’d been wandering the streets pretty aimlessly, staring at the gathering of people sitting under trees bursting with tiny pink flowers. _Cherry blossoms_ , he recalls their name being. Many have already fallen from the branches, blanketing the grass and sidewalks even as countless more still pop from the trees. The visual reminds him of the pristine white snowfall in St. Petersburg, and the image brings nostalgia and comfort.

Viktor goes from watching the flowers sway in the breeze, their scent brushing against his cheeks, to staring at the group of adults chatting and laughing, sharing a bottle of alcohol between them. It smells like sake.

When they notice Viktor’s stare, they wave him over and offer him a cup, and Viktor wonders if they’re already buzzed to reach out to a foreigner like this. He accepts the sake anyway with one of his charming smiles that make the women of the group and at least two of the men blush.

They don’t speak English, so it’s impossible to hold a conversation, and Viktor’s right back to simply observing the people around them, the families and friends that simply enjoy each other’s company while framed in the beautiful flowers. The familiarity, the warmth between them, sets them further apart from where Viktor stands.

Over the rim of his cup, Viktor glances up at the cherry blossoms. They shiver on their branches like they’re having their own lively chatter as well, and are shaking with tender laughs about inside jokes, about secrets only flowers could know.

It’s Viktor’s last day in Japan and he suddenly realizes that he’s not going to leave feeling any fuller in his heart than when he entered the country. It suddenly strikes him how ridiculous he’d been in the first place, taking off from Russia as soon as the off-season began on nothing more than a whim, with nothing else but beautiful scenery like these cherry blossoms and mountains and shrines in mind when he chose Japan.

He sees these wonders, hears the laughter of the people, and knows these aren’t things he can pack up in his bag with him. Love and life like this can’t be put in a bottle or worn on his body. This is just a snapshot, a moment, that Viktor isn’t a part of, and it’ll soon fade away.

Almost mechanically, he takes a picture of his sake against the cherry blossoms, posting it online with less vigor than before. Resolving to leave for his hotel room, Viktor downs the rest of his drink without much decorum, and swipes a drop from the edge of the ceramic with his thumb before licking that up too. The numbing sweetness doesn’t last long on his tongue.

As he’s about to return the cup, the wind shifts then picks up. Children squeal happily and others exclaim in delight as a shower of cherry blossom petals rain down, the flowers twirling and dancing playfully in the air. The sight captivates Viktor, who swears that the flowers fall in slow motion, as if they’re trying to reach for the blue skies even as gravity chases after them.

One blossom is shaken loose, and flutters, flutters, flutters down. Viktor only needs to extend his hand a few inches before the cherry blossom lands perfectly into his empty cup. Viktor looks down at it, at the pale pink spread against the lingering drops of sake, at the petals that are a little bigger and rounder than the others, and at the vibrant flushed tone at the center, where tiny stalks of stamen burst out like a firework, the anthers a deep amber, almost brown.

Viktor doesn’t know why he plucks the flower up and delicately places it in his breast pocket. But it feels important somehow, like he can steal this feeling with him after all.

By the time he enters his hotel room, and long after boards the plane back to Russia, it doesn’t even matter. He forgets all about the cherry blossom, and forgets most of his trip. The closest thing he holds onto is the snowfall of pale petals, phantom spins and dances like he’s on the ice shadowing over his body when he sleeps.

* * *

Viktor doesn’t do the laundry or really empty his bags when he arrives back into his apartment, and really that’s for the best in the end. He gets as far as opening his luggage of dirty clothes then gives up and flops onto bed with his soft and lovable dog, Makkachin, who is the only one that greets Viktor when he gets home.

Ever since he’d adopted the fluffy pooch when he was about eighteen, Makkachin has been his constant friend and family, and the light of Viktor’s life. When Viktor thinks of home, he only thinks of Makkachin, and when he’s away from St. Petersburg, the only thing he truly misses is being able to cuddle with his dog as he sleeps, just as he does now.

So after a few hours, when Viktor hears a slight whimper through the heavy veil of sleep, he assumes it’s Makkachin, and Viktor rouses, worried. The grey-blue light of pre-dawn filters through the lace curtains, giving the walls a soft, sleepy glow. It takes a moment for Viktor’s eyes to adjust, but he hears the whimper again and slowly uncoils his muscles for a stretch as he sits up.

Makkachin is curled up right beside him, a lump of toasty warmth and softness. He slumbers peacefully, clearly not in any distress. Relieved, Viktor resists the urge to pet him, lest he rouse his beloved pooch from sleep.

But the whimpering continues, and now that Viktor’s more awake, he wonders how he could have confused this sound for Makkachin. What punctuates the air is like a high-pitched wind whistling, like rustling leaves and the sad, lonely jingle of a single bell. Viktor turns over on his bed, searching for the source of the sound by tilting his head this way and that, ears on high alert.

He finally peeks over the edge of the bed, and sees the mess of his open luggage, souvenirs littering the floor and clothing half-sprawled out. One of his shirts is among them, still smelling strongly of Japan’s spring air, and Viktor sees it.

The cherry blossom sits on his breast pocket, still perfectly intact despite being shoved unceremoniously into Viktor’s suitcase. It shivers, and Viktor thinks perhaps he left a fan on, but the room is completely still save for the pitiful whimpering sounds. Viktor squints, looks around his room more, then peers closer.

The dawn light must be playing tricks on him. Because the cherry blossom is _not_ the flower Viktor swore it had been but yesterday. But the longer Viktor stares, the more he can make out very tiny features, something like a body, a humanoid body, arms and legs and a plump little torso. The flower continues to quiver and cry until Viktor yanks on the chain of his bedside lamp, and the orange light spills onto the floor.

Dark eyes of shaded amber peer up at Viktor, wide and startled. The color is beautiful in the light, and Viktor leans even further off the bed to catch the kaleidoscope of warm browns and soft marigolds that glimmer in those microscopic irises. The proximity allows him to catch skin tinged in pale pink, looking so soft and delicate like a porcelain doll. Short, dark hair flutters in wisps like a thousand brown petals on the top of the flower’s head.

A small cherry blossom boy, no bigger than Viktor’s thumb, sits on his shirt and hitches a tiny breath in tiny lungs like a spring breeze.

“Ah!” he cries.

Viktor finally falls off the side of the bed from how far he’s leaning. He desperately clings to the blankets as he thuds to the floor, lest he squish his new discovery. When he frantically turns, stares at the tiny boy, he gasps.

The pale petals of the cherry blossom flutter around pudgy thighs at Viktor’s impact, and the boy freezes.

“What the _hell_ was in that sake?” Viktor muses out loud, eyes wide. He only had the one cup, and that wasn’t nearly enough to even get a buzz. Viktor is _pretty_ damn sure he’s sober and lucid right now.

And yet…

The cherry blossom boy makes the silver bell sound again, and it’s only then that Viktor remembers the mournful tone that woke him up in the first place. Even though Viktor has no idea what this is, he can’t possibly be cruel to such a small and sweet creature -- at least, he hopes he’s sweet.

“Hey -- are you crying?” He realizes he’s speaking in Russian. This spirit -- fairy -- flower -- _whatever_ is from Japan, but Viktor can nary say a thing outside  basic greetings and “I want to buy a drink”.

The cherry blossom boy just stares. Finally, a small, “Where am I?” comes out.

Viktor blinks. Whatever the flower is speaking, it’s not Russian or Japanese. He doesn’t even think it’s a human language, even though Viktor clearly understands him. Beyond the words is the hint of flowers rustling in the wind. It’s a silver-sweet sound, and the flower’s voice sways over the skin of Viktor’s ear like delicate sunshine.

When he finishes marvelling over these new sights and sounds, and no doubt some brush with something ethereal -- magical? supernatural? -- Viktor answers, “This is St. Petersburg, Russia. I’m sorry, but I brought you here on accident when I pocketed you during my trip to Japan.”

“You kept me with you?” His awe and shock is a warm breeze. The boy somehow understands Viktor the same way Viktor understands him.

“On accident.” Viktor rests the side of his face on the floor to get a better look at the cherry blossom. “I didn’t realize you were, um, _alive_. Are all flowers like this in Japan?”

The boy shakes his head. “But it is not uncommon for spirits to be attracted to the cherry blossom trees.”

Viktor nods to himself, even though he’s fairly certain that this explanation goes over his head. He probably shouldn’t be screwing with spirits, much less foreign ones, but the flower looks harmless enough.

“My name is Viktor,” he settles on saying.

“Viktor,” the cherry blossom repeats, his gaze sliding back and forth between Viktor’s much larger eyes. For a creature that isn’t exactly human, the flower sure moves and acts in such cute, humanlike ways. Viktor finds himself smiling at the serene silver bell sound his name makes on the flower’s lips.

Makkachin rouses at that moment, and hops down to the floor beside Viktor to see what all the excitement is. Right away, his nose and eyes pick up on the new presence in the room, and is set on examining it. As good a dog as Makkachin is, Viktor has visions of Makkachin accidentally eating the flower, and he scurries to cup the cherry blossom boy in his hands before he can be smothered with wet dog nose.

“Nah-ah, Makkachin! I know you mean well, but our new guest is delicate,” he says, and cradles his cocooned hands to his chest. He gets up, then gently peers inside. The flower has curled up in his palm, hugging his petals protectively to himself to avoid being crushed. Viktor opens his hand up more to give him air.

Tentatively, giving Viktor a glance, the cherry blossom boy unfurls himself and takes a look at Makkachin down below. Makkachin bounces back onto the bed, trying to get a look. Viktor watches them back and forth, grinning when he sees something like curious delight on the flower’s face. The expression reminds Viktor a lot of Yuri when he finds something he absolutely cannot resist even though he’ll try to hide it.

“Do you have a name?”

The cherry blossom boy considers the question, but the only answer he seems to have is to slowly sit back down on Viktor’s palm and stare at him. It didn’t seem like he was much of a talker. Viktor sees him glance toward the window, as if hoping that beyond it would be the familiar landscape of Japan.

“I think I’ll call you Yuuri,” he says, and the flower starts.

“But-- But I’m a _cherry blossom_. Why would you address me as a lily?”

Viktor isn’t sure what that means, if this is some secret meaning he’s unaware of or a Japanese thing, but he laughs to himself, and at how straightforwardly the suggestion is refused.

“I can think of something better if you’d like. But I think Yuuri suits you.” He probably shouldn’t be giving the cherry blossom boy a name, and he _should_ be wondering if he’ll incur some supernatural consequences upon himself for teasing the little spirit, but Viktor has always been easy-going about the events of his life. He accepts this talking flower with as much grace as anything else that’s ever happened to him, and he smiles even more.

The cherry blossom looks down at himself, as if trying to locate what about him makes him suited for such a name. Viktor imagines him comparing his rounded petals to something larger, more angular and lavish like a typical lily. It’s amusing how serious he is as he considers it, even as his eyes hold a peculiar wonder to it, like it never occurred to him to have a name in the first place.

In the end, he smooths his petals over his thighs in a modest gesture and nods.

Somehow, that’s the start to Viktor having a tiny flower spirit in his home.

* * *

Yuuri curls up in Viktor’s breast pocket, and with every careful step, he jostles against Viktor’s chest, right over his heart.

He has no clue what to do with Yuuri, but he knows that he’d rather keep the little cherry blossom with him rather than cooped up in his house. It seems to work out fine, since Yuuri attaches himself like a magnet to Viktor. His tiny body is filled with anxiety at being so far away from the familiarity of Japan, and he latches onto Viktor, the only solace he has in a strange country, miles and miles away from a cherry blossom tree.

It fills Viktor with some guilt, that he’s accidentally separated Yuuri from where he belongs. But if he’s going to be here in Russia with Viktor, then he wants to at least give Yuuri some comfort. He thought perhaps some air and open skies might put Yuuri at ease.

As they wait to cross the street, Viktor hums as a slight wind brushes through the stray silver strands of his bangs. He opens his pocket up just a bit, giving Yuuri a smile.

“Why don’t you come feel the sunlight? It’s not as warm as Japan’s, but…”

Yuuri peers up at him. His eyes, Viktor discovers, are what truly reveal his inhuman nature, other than his size of course. It’s definitely the special mix of color in them, the golds and ambers and cinnamon-browns, but also how wide and full of secrets they are, even as they remain sparkling like Yuuri is searching for something new to learn and take in. Even though his eyes are comparatively small, they well deeply and Viktor knows Yuuri can absorb him wholly with that gaze alone.

Yuuri observes him a moment, taking his words in, then hops up to poke his tiny head out of Viktor’s pocket. For Viktor, the air was fairly warm, but to Yuuri, the breeze was possibly a bit chilly. But Viktor hears his lyrical hum of pleasure as the sun hits him, and his petals seem to preen under the rays, soaking them in with delight. Viktor watches him with a smile.

“Alright, Yuuri, I’m moving again.”

They move forward through the street, and Yuuri plops back down inside Viktor’s pocket just as a jogger passes by from the opposite direction. Viktor’s not sure how others would react to Yuuri, and he’s half-tempted to show him off just to make sure this really isn’t some hallucination of his.

If this _is_ a weird dream though, Viktor has no problem in being the only one to know its sweetness and wonder.

They make it to a park, and Viktor picks out a bench that’s a fair distance from the rowdy children chasing each other around and squealing in delight as their mothers push them on swings and catch them at the bottom of slides.

He hasn’t been to someplace as innocent as a park in years, since he was a child himself. The weight of his age and how much of his life has passed since discovering figure skating presses on his shoulders. It reminds him of how he’d felt under the cherry blossom trees -- being surrounded by others, but not existing in the same world as them.

Viktor is used to being a spectacle, and being looked at by the world outside the rink. When Viktor isn’t skating though, he becomes the audience and observer as others lived their lives. This oscillation, this impenetrable barrier where he can’t simply co-exist the two instead of being on one side of the fence, sets his mind on edge.

(Time is not a frozen thing like the ice he skates on. It moves forward, and leaves everything that can’t keep up behind.)

He lets Yuuri out of his pocket again, and settles him down on the wood of the bench beside him. Just as before, Yuuri sits down in the sunlight and sighs, content. Viktor has never taken care of anything besides Makkachin before, much less a little spirit, but he hopes he’s doing alright with Yuuri so far.

There’s bushes of petunias planted along the park’s fence, and Viktor nods to them.

“Say, Yuuri. Are they like you too? Alive like a spirit?”

Yuuri gives the petunias a glance.

“I’m just suddenly really curious, and thinking about all the flowers I’ve encountered until now,” Viktor continues. He thinks of the bursts of roses and sleek tulips he’s had cradled in his arms before. “I’ve been surrounded by them for years, since people always give me bouquets when I skate. I even wore a crown of blue roses once. I always felt guilty about eventually having to toss them, but if I kept every single flower, my apartment would be bursting with them.”

“It was pretty empty though,” Yuuri notes, and even though it’s an innocent comment on his part, the fact makes Viktor internally flinch just a little. It sounds sad and pathetic, which Viktor never associates with himself.

Viktor laughs to himself, but it sounds hollow even to his ears. “I suppose it would’ve been nice to keep them,” he agrees. He hums to himself, imagining a bunch of Yuuri-like creatures, carnations with puffy, tulle-like skirts, and tulips with their red bulbs drooping down their heads like hair. “If they were all little spirits like you, then I’d come back from long periods of traveling to a very lively home. Makkachin wouldn’t be alone while I was away, and -- hmm, I guess it’d be nice to have someone to talk to all the time in my pocket like this~”

In the pause that follows, Yuuri’s gaze shifts, trailing after the breeze where they make the petunias sway. “It’s hard to tell what is a spirit sometimes unless they actually make themselves known to you,” he finally says, answering Viktor’s previous question. “But cherry blossoms don’t like showing themsleves, so I can’t speak for all flowers.”

Viktor supposes that fits, considering the overall humble nature of the Japanese people he encountered. “You seem pretty show-offy though when you rain down from the trees. It was really beautiful,” he smiles at the memory, “like you were dancing.”

To Viktor’s pleasant shock, Yuuri’s pale-pink body blooms an even darker shade, like he’s _blushing_. Viktor positively beams at this, and delicately brushes his fingertip along one of Yuuri’s soft petals.

“Do you like dancing, Yuuri?”

Yuuri places his hands over his tiny, pudgy belly, fidgeting his fingers together. _So cute_. “I never did it before the wind finally shook me from the tree. It’s a feeling I didn’t know until it happened, and before I knew it, it was over.” Yuuri says this without any disappointment.

Nonetheless, Viktor feels guilty again. He _had_ caught Yuuri in his sake cup and ended his dance early. Viktor glances off to the families playing in the park again. His mind flashes back to the Japanese children marvelling over the spectacle of the cherry blossoms’ dazzling, floating pirouettes. It was a sight Viktor had never seen before, yet it felt like something his gaze needed to take in and his heart needed to be moved by like nothing else he’d experienced.

Yuuri had truly been beautiful back then.

“You know,” he starts, “I do my fair share of dancing too.” He offers a smile down to Yuuri. “Would you like to see it?”

Again, those welling dark eyes stare up at him. They’re sparkling now, and it’s more than the sunlight reflecting back now. Immediately, Yuuri nods.

* * *

The next day, Viktor is back on the ice. He never leaves it for long, really, and the sound of his skates scraping over the ice are a familiar, welcoming sound for him. Almost as familiar as the simultaneous shout of his name out of Yakov and Yuri’s mouths, the former demanding to know why he disappeared to Japan for a week and the latter snapping at Viktor to show him how to do the combination jumps he’d put in his winning program this past season like he’d promised. Viktor placates them both by transitioning right on in to skating, doing some routine steps to get his blood moving.

During the skating season that just ended a month prior, Viktor had performed under the theme of “longing”. He initially considered “yearning,” and while the two words were mostly synonymous, he feels like the latter indicated something that had been possessed, then lost, and was now sought after deep in the recesses of the heart -- like innocence, or love. Even though Viktor skates for the world, even this emotion felt too personal to name for them all.

“Longing” sounds more romantic, and Viktor thought the press and his fans would enjoy going wild trying to insert themselves in Viktor’s world of longing when he skates to “Stammi Vicino,” unknowing that Viktor himself isn’t sure what it is his heart calls out for.

The lyrics might have spoken for themselves, the duality of wanting something, while at the same time almost scorning it.

 _This story that has no meaning,  
_ _Will vanish tonight together with the stars_

(Unfulfillment and emptiness is a painful thing, especially when the object of your desire is such an elusive thing.)

Viktor recalls the feelings well as he dances the program once more. His body is absorbed in the flow of the song, his body moving to express the words and sound, to become one with it. It’s with grace and fluidity that he glides across the ice, and it takes the barest shread of his awareness to not close his eyes to completely immerse himself.

His kind of dancing isn’t floating in the air or taking to the skies by the spring wind, but every time Viktor twirls or jumps, he swears the feeling must be the same.

He’s so immersed in his world, that he completely forgets that he’s teaching Yuri something until he’s finished, and Yuri is scowling at him at the edge of the rink.

“Geez, you fucking show-off,” he says, his glare powerful even under the feathery fall of his bangs. “You didn’t have to skate your whole routine, I just wanted, like, _ten seconds_ of it.”

“The whole program is a rather bountiful lesson for you, isn’t it, Yura?” Viktor smiles widely at him, skating in carefree circles.

“Show-off,” Yuri says again, flipping him off. He breaks away from the edge and skates out more, doing some warm-ups of his own before trying out Viktor’s jumps. His youthful energy and joints that haven’t yet gone through two decades of training like Viktor’s give him the power to take to the air higher, but he ultimately loses his footing on the harder landing and curses.

Viktor skates over to him, but doesn’t offer a hand up as he knows Yuri will only slap it away. “If you go in all headstrong like that, you won’t be able to prepare for landings or your next jump,” he says, still smiling overly sweet. His tone is equally saccharine, and that earns him another glare and a shove once Yuri gets up.

“Shut up, I _know_ that!”

As Yuri starts going through the jumps, Viktor’s mind drifts. He keeps glancing back to the bundle of his bag sitting on the bleachers. His jacket flows out of it, and he knows bundled up inside it like a baby bird in a nest is Yuuri. The rink is a much colder place than Yuuri is used to, so Viktor makes sure he has a warm place to curl up in if he needs to. From where he stands, he can’t see the pink dots of Yuuri’s petals. He must be inside the bag.

“Say, Yuri, do you know anything about spirits? Or little fairies?”

Yuri’s skate hits the ice, and he spirals his step sequence to a stop. “What the hell are you on about now, Viktor?” He brushes his bangs from his sweating forehead, catching his breath.

“I’m being utterly serious. I have a new friend, you see. I was wondering if you knew anything, being the beloved Russian Fairy and all.” The last part is a dig that he knows will only repel Yuri away from him, but he can’t resist.

Sure enough, Yuri bristles, and kicks stray flecks of ice at Viktor’s ankles. “Stop trying to make that a thing! I told you, I’m the Ice Tiger of Russia! _Ice Tiger!_ ” He bares his teeth for good measure.

Viktor laughs, skating away from Yuri to give him more room to practice. Idly, Viktor goes through some stray bits of a new routine. He doesn’t have anything solid yet, and hasn’t even picked out any music, but sometimes just letting his body move as it wants leads from one thing to another.

After another half hour though, he gets antsy and takes to the bleachers, partially for a water break and partially to check on Yuuri.

But Yuuri isn’t in Viktor’s bag, or nestled in his jacket as he expects. Panic seizes his chest, before he catches a wisp of pink on the other side of his bag and he exhales, pressing a relieved hand to his chest.

Then he sees how Yuuri is moving across the steal beams, delicately bouncing on the tips of his toes as he spins and leaps, arms raised. His petals twirl along with him, fluttering up and down with his jumps. There’s not much skill or method to Yuuri’s dance, and maybe that’s why it takes Viktor more than a moment to realize that Yuuri is doing his best to imitate Viktor’s "Stammi Vicino" routine. The translation from skating to ballet-like movements gives the program a new look, but not necessarily a different feel. Viktor can clearly see the yearning that reaches out from within Yuuri as his hands extend forward to grasp air.

Viktor wonders to himself, and not unkindly, if cherry blossoms too understand what it means to desire something.

He wonders what it is Yuuri desires.

At his next turn, Yuuri glances up at Viktor, offers a small smile on flushed lips, and dances on until the end. He changes the pose, reaching one hand out towards Viktor, the gesture open and inviting and _giving_ in contrast to the crossed arms and eyes that glance at no one that is the original pose.

Viktor touches his chest, making a show of how moved he is -- but also to calm the sudden quake in his heart -- and then claps.

“You’re a natural!” he says with a smile. “Beautiful~ Encore~ I’d toss you flowers but that might be redundant, huh? You’d be more beautiful than any bouquet I give you anyway.”

The dark pink tints return over Yuuri’s face and body, but he smiles softly at Viktor’s praises. “It’s not the ice dancing you do though. But I couldn’t look away when Viktor skated. It was very dazzling… But also very sad. I didn’t realize how expressive dancing could be, so I wanted to try it too.”

Viktor’s smile softens, and he presses his water bottle to his lips as he surveys the others of the Russian skating team practicing. Just from them alone, their styles and what they chose to express was vastly different -- Yuri’s unwavering determination, Mila’s grace and elegance, and Georgi’s dynamic theatrics. All of it tells different stories, and you could see their hearts reflected on the ice.

_When I look down at the ice, what’s being reflected back at me? What does the audience see?_

Viktor lowers his bottle. “It was very sad, huh? Maybe so. But even I couldn’t tell you what I’m waiting for.”

_And while I idle away thinking about it, time keeps flowing. In twenty years more, will I have built anything solid? Will I have something supporting me? Just the same as the very tree Yuuri bloomed in, will I have any roots to help me stand, or flowers in my arms?_

_I don’t know what it is that I feel like I’m missing. But if I don’t find it, perhaps I’ll simply die feeling unfulfilled_.

Yuuri climbs into Viktor’s bag, nestling into the folds of his jacket. His petals quiver slightly, seeming a little paler than before.

“Cold, Yuuri?”

“A little.”

“Alright, let’s go home then. Hmm, do cherry blossoms like hot tea…?”

* * *

Music fills Viktor’s home for the first time in a while. Yuuri has really taken to dancing ever since visiting the rink, and he has boundless energy to do pirouettes and leaps over the kitchen counter, petals flouncing about like a skirt.

Viktor selects some of his favorite classical pieces from various ballet productions, and watches Yuuri perform like his own tiny danseur. Yuuri looks like the ballerinas that waltz inside music boxes, spinning forever and ever. Sometimes as he watches Yuuri dance, he’ll put two fingers down on the counter beside Yuuri, pretending to be a dancing partner for him, and he laughs at Yuuri’s surprised blushes when he hooks his middle finger around his waist.

He makes sure Yuuri gets plenty of sunlight and warmth, and the cherry blossom does indeed seem quite taken with green tea, even though he tells Viktor that he doesn’t necessarily need human sustenance. When he sits down for a cup, Viktor can’t help but fawn over him, brushing over Yuuri’s petals and gently poking at his dumpling-like cheeks and marshmallow tummy.

Makkachin loves Yuuri too. Viktor allows them to get slowly acquainted, cautiously shielding Yuuri as Makkachin sniffs and assesses him. By the end of the day, Yuuri is perched on top of Makkachin’s head like he has a flower pin in his curly fur. When Viktor takes a picture on his phone, he’s surprised that Yuuri’s image doesn’t come out; what rests on Makkachin looks like a perfectly ordinary cherry blossom.

* * *

Viktor feels antsy. He always does during the off-season. It feels like there’s a thousand things he should be doing and experiencing, but he remains indoors, occasionally taking Makkachin and Yuuri out for a walk, or going to the rink.

On the fifth day since Yuuri’s accidental arrival, Viktor’s watching some romantic movie, Makkachin curled up on his lap, and Yuuri on the coffee table, quietly sipping green tea from a little ceramic dollhouse cup. Viktor made the purchase after passing a toy shop on the way to the park, and delighted on the simple roses printed on the tea set.

“First you call me a lily, now you’re giving me roses,” Yuuri had said, turning the cup in his hands, but he didn’t seem to hate it despite his cute little frown.

Viktor pauses in the middle of lazily petting Makkachin and focuses a little more on the movie. The main characters just exchanged rings in front of an illuminated cathedral, and Viktor hums.

“Maybe I should visit Barcelona next. It’ll be warmer there, Yuuri. Would you be interested?”

Yuuri turns his head. “Viktor travels a lot?”

Viktor smiles. “Yes, I’m always out somewhere for skating competitions. So when it’s the off-season and I have nothing to do, I suppose you can say I get fidgety with wanderlust.”

“You don’t have anything to do?” Yuuri tilts his head. “No family to visit or friends you’d like to see again? I think they’d like to go with you, and you’d have more fun with others you don’t have to hide in your pocket.”

Viktor thinks briefly of the Russian team and Christophe, but they’re all skaters with busy schedules like him. When Yuri isn’t training, he’s visiting Moscow for weeks at a time to be with his grandfather, and Christophe does his own traveling to romantic sites with his boyfriend. Viktor’s own family is -- not in the picture. At the moment, he has no lover. When he stops and thinks about it, he hasn’t had one for a while -- the world adores him only from afar.

The movie thankfully fills the silence.

Maybe it’s because Yuuri is Yuuri, because he’s Viktor’s little secret that doesn’t know the faces he has to pull for the public, but Viktor can’t pull out a smile this time. He runs a tired hand through his hair.

“It’s hard,” he finally says, “trying to fill the time in between.”

 _To fill my heart_.

Yuuri gives him that observing stare, but for once, Viktor doesn’t feel like anything is separating him from someone. Yuuri is always trying to find way to slip into Viktor’s world, or pull Viktor into his.

“Viktor, do you know what cherry blossoms mean?”

“What they mean?” Viktor tilts his head, surprised at the sudden question.

“They can mean beauty. Or a good education. Cherry blossoms generally bloom around the time the new school year starts.” Yuuri’s eyes are unwavering on Viktor, and the colors shift in the dark irises again. “But they also mean impermanence.”

 _Impermanence_ \-- transient. Not lasting forever.

The word sends a ripple of fear through Viktor.

“Everything alive on this earth goes through time in a series of cycles. What is alive will inevitably die. What is here now may not be with you tomorrow. It happens faster than you can possibly realize. Faster than a blink. Time has no qualms about leaving everything behind.” Yuuri stands, and Viktor reflexively offers his hand out for Yuuri to climb on. He cradles Yuuri on his palm, bringing those hypnotic eyes closer.

Yuuri’s words are a binding force on him that Viktor doesn’t anticipate from such a small pair of lips. A spell might as well have been spoken to him, coiling around his heart like silver thread. The spring breeze is heavier in Yuuri’s words, the white noise nearly blocking out his voice itself.

“I see how you look at others, Viktor. I saw how you danced on the ice. Even if you do find the life and love you’re yearning for, you’re terrified of it being ripped away from you, aren’t you? That you too will fade without finding it at all?”

“Yuuri,” Viktor whispers, and his voice is saturated with a pathetic plea. He doesn’t know if he wants Yuuri to stop or keep going and maybe, _maybe_ give him an answer he’s looking for. He’s a spirit, and that must be why he can see into Viktor’s heart so easily. His eyes are full of secrets, and Viktor just wants to know the path to happiness, to _something_ that’ll unfurl the closed bud of his heart.

Yuuri steps to the edge of Viktor’s palm. He reaches out, his hand brushing over Viktor’s cheek. Filling his tiny hand is a drop of something clear and glistening. It’s only then that Viktor realizes he’s crying. It comes so suddenly that Viktor doesn’t even notice the burn between his eyes or his vision blurring; the tears simply freely fall down his cheeks and cling to his eyelashes in thick droplets. Yuuri moves forward again, and Viktor shifts his hand closer so that Yuuri doesn’t fall off when small, soft lips press against a tear.

“It’s fine. You’re only human. That’s why, in this short life, I don’t think there’s anything wrong with desire. I’m the embodiment of impermanence, but even I have wishes now.” When Yuuri pulls back, he’s smiling. His pink lips are glistening with Viktor’s teardrop. “Maybe what you want is in a far-off country. Maybe it’s something here at home. Maybe it’s big or small or intangible. But since it’s Viktor, you’ll definitely find it, and you’ll hold on to each other with everything you have. By then, Viktor won’t know loneliness anymore.”

God, why couldn’t he hug Yuuri? Why couldn’t he press into him and fit perfectly into all his empty spaces? He wanted to skate his hands over that softness, and have Yuuri’s sweet scent envelop him. What he settles for is licking the salt from his lips and nodding before petting the top of Yuuri’s feathery hair with his fingertip. Yuuri leans into the touch.

Viktor wants to plant these words like seeds inside himself, until flowers burst between the emptiness in his ribcage, and roots tangle along his spine.

 _It’s okay. You’re not alone_.

* * *

Viktor opens his curtains and blinds a fraction so that each morning, the first rays of the sun fall on Yuuri, who slumbers on Viktor’s nightstand in a little empty candle tin that Viktor stuffed with cotton for Yuuri’s comfort.

The previous night, he’d gone to sleep with Yuuri’s words and feather-soft touch in his mind. They’re the first things he thinks of when his internal alarm clock rouses him at five-thirty in the morning. As he stares out into the morning darkness, he remembers that Yuuri said he has wishes now too.

 _What is it? He never told me_ … If it was in Viktor’s power, he’d want to help Yuuri have anything he wanted. More sunlight, more dances, anything he wished.

He sits up with resolve, and looks over at where Yuuri sleeps. The familiar shadowed silhouette of Yuuri’s petals lays in the tiny bed of cotton, and Viktor draws near. Then, he frowns. The petals are all he sees, and he wonders if Yuuri curled further into himself. Maybe he was cold.

Worried, Viktor turns on his bedside lamp, then freezes.

Yuuri isn’t there. Only a cherry blossom, an ordinary one with withered petals, sits in the candle tin.

Viktor’s heart stops, and he reaches out to nudge at the flower, hoping that Yuuri’s little body will suddenly unfurl, that he’ll stretch in that cute way of his, then peer up at Viktor with his kaleidoscope eyes like always. Like _always_.

But the flower only rustles weakly in the cotton, as if the petals mean to disintegrate under Viktor’s touch. Yuuri’s smile does not greet him in the morning sunlight.

There is no “always”. That’s what Yuuri had essentially told him yesterday.

* * *

Viktor scrolls through the links on his laptop, but they all say the same thing.

Cherry blossoms were notorious for their short blooming season. If lucky, considering weather conditions, the flowers lasted about fourteen days. Their short lives prompted the Japanese to celebrate their beauty with various events such as _hanami_ , which Viktor realized he’d walked in on during his trip. Of all the days he’d chosen to escape to Japan, it was the narrow window of peak cherry blossom blooming season.

Fourteen days.

Two brief weeks.

Yuuri had been with Viktor for barely a week. Who knew how long he’d been in the tree before that. Perhaps only another handful of days. And then Viktor had brought him to Russia, in a different climate. His mind tried to reason that there had to have been ways to keep Yuuri alive longer, despite what he was reading.

“ _I’m the embodiment of impermanence, but even I have wishes now_.”

Viktor scrubs a hand over his face, and he _does_ feel the burn between his eyes this time before he starts crying.

* * *

Viktor slips the withered cherry blossom between some postcards he got from Japan -- one depicting a splendid profile of a castle in Hasetsu and the other a close-up of the cherry blossom trees heavy with flowers.

He collects the postcards wherever he goes, and he’s not sure why, since he sends them to no one.

* * *

“Viktor! Hey! Viktor, I’m _talking_ to you!”

The rink is the only place he can lose himself, and Viktor slowly drifts back and forth on the ice, not really thinking about anything or seeing anything. He accidentally cuts in front of the other skaters’ path several times because it requires too much energy to move out of the way.

He stills, looking over at Yuri Plisetsky, who kicks ice at him once more before jabbing a finger to his chest.

“What’s your problem? You keep getting all spacey like that you’re gonna…” Yuri blinks, his anger sobering up at the sight of Viktor’s face. “H-hey, are you alright?” He waves a hand in front of Viktor’s face as if to snap him out of a trance.

Depression isn’t a good look on him. Viktor knows whatever he looks like in a performance is meant to be interpreted as a masquerade -- he isn’t _really_ supposed to be this sad, this anxious, this incomplete. This loss he feels is palpable in every one of his movements, and until he figures out what to do with it, he skates.

“Don’t worry about it, Yura,” he says, working up a smile and ruffling Yuri’s hair.

Yuri slaps his hand away. “What is this? Some mid-life crisis? You’re that old already, after all.” There’s no bite to match his words.

Viktor shrugs. “Something like that, maybe. I’ll be an old man before I realize it.”

“Hah, so you finally understand that much!” Seemingly satisfied with this answer, Yuri starts to skate away. Viktor reaches out and catches his wrist. The surprise in those green eyes match Viktor’s own, and he tries to figure out where he was going with this.

“Say,” he begins, “do you want me to show you how to do the jumps in my program again? Maybe afterward, you can show me the step sequences you’ve been working on? I’ll give you some feedback before you show off to Yakov.”

Yuri’s cheeks tint pink; it had been a poorly-kept secret that Yuri was trying to develop a program on his own. He hadn’t done it before, but Mila had smiled widely when she informed Viktor of Yuri’s secret practices.

“He really wants to catch up to you, you know. To the point where he wants to do his own choreography despite having no inspiration whatsoever. You should see it, Viktor. He’s so awkward like a baby deer~!”

Viktor smiles. He knows with some polishing, Yuri has the potential to flourish beautifully. He wants to be there when that happens. Because time goes on, and there will surely be a competition where Yuri will stand at the top of the podium where Viktor once was. Viktor finds he’s no longer as scared of having no place on the podium or in skating as he once was.

“What do you say to that, Yura?”

Yuri huffs, yanking his hand back. “Do what you want, I guess. If you see me practice, then… I can’t stop you.”

When Viktor smiles this time, it’s sincere. He glides out over the ice again, finds his balance and builds his speed, then jumps from the ice, twirling into a perfect quadruple flip. He does this again and again, his signature move, until he feels like gravity can’t possibly pull him back down.

* * *

There’s a cherry blossom-scented oil Viktor finds when Mila, Georgi, and Yuri all go shopping. He samples it, and swear he can feel Yuuri’s little weight weighing down in his breast pocket.

It’s summer now, and too hot for any pale-pink flowers to rain down. Still, invisible melodies play in Viktor’s head that sound like gentle wind and smell like spring.

* * *

His theme the next season is “impermanence”, and even though it’s a word that should evoke melancholy, Viktor remembers well Yuuri’s words when he starts coming up with the step sequences and jumps that send him in dazzling, dizzying circles:

“ _Everything alive on this earth goes through time in a series of cycles_.”

No matter what, everything alive will one day die. Even intangible things like feelings fade away. But Viktor knows now that this isn’t the true end. Love, life, everything in between -- they are a series of cycles, and even in oscillation, will exist in highs and lows. But they did _exist_ , and as long as they do, Viktor will hold onto them for as long as he lives. He will not elude time or tell himself that he can pretend it isn’t there -- he will flow with it, and move forward at last. He will live, and he will love, with all his heart.

Impermanence itself _is_ permanence, a constant. Because even cherry blossoms would bloom again, year after year, without fail. Time goes forward, and life and love continue to grow, again and again.

When the competition season starts, Viktor takes to the ice and dances with a freedom he hasn’t known since he was a child discovering the ice. He doesn’t imagine the stares of the audience, but instead the gaze of dark amber and marigold, and reaches out with open hands that have cradled life itself. When he closes his eyes, he feels his heart overlap the cold barriers he’d set up for himself, and he overflows with emotion in his dance.

His costume is a pale pink suit, like spring-tinted snow, and embellished in gold at the edges. A buttoned coat with several tails is tailored to fan out like flower petals with every one of his jumps. His thin waistcoat beneath is vivid magenta, and curling around the outer shell of his ear are clip-on earrings of golden tendrils and shining pink flowers.

At the end of it, gifts are tossed onto the ice as always. Viktor keeps every single bouquet and brings them back to his apartment. He’s never realized how colorless it is until that moment, and looks down at Makkachin with a smile, the counters and coffee table full of vases with rainbow blooms.

“The place finally looks lively now, doesn’t it, boy?”

Makkachin boofs his agreement, pawing at Viktor’s legs until Viktor leans down to let his beloved pooch slobber his cheeks with kisses.

* * *

The off-season is soon, and Worlds is drawing to a close. It’s a tough competition this year, especially with such a brilliant new crop of talent. But Viktor manages to take gold once more, perhaps his proudest win, and the brilliance of the medal shines in the light.

It’s just as well that this is perhaps his last season at peak performance. Given his theme, it fits that by the time he slides off the ice and gives the press the smiles and thankful messages they’re after, his whole body feels incredibly weary. He feels the years worth of ache in his knees and ankles all at once. He’s told Yakov just minutes before that he’d be waiting for him outside the rink, and Viktor plops himself down on the first bench he finds, placing his bag on the floor with a weary sigh.

It’s still fairly cool, given that night has fallen and spring has barely arrived. Worlds is in Japan this year, and Viktor settles under the familiar sky, looking out at the landscape in the distance. It’s a lie to say that he hasn’t thought about returning here for months now, but training has kept him successfully occupied. When he learns of Worlds being in Tokyo, he pours everything he has into his skating to qualify, even though he’d be able to make it through with relative ease. But Viktor doesn’t want to get complacent, he wants to give everything he has for himself.

He wants to live for _now_ , to perform for _now_ , as if each moment may be his last.

You only live once, after all.

Viktor closes his eyes, enjoying his moment of peaceful respite as he breathes in a lungful of air. The coolness settles in his body, but doesn’t carry any floral scent to it. It may be March, but it’s still a few days early for any flower viewings to happen. Right about now, Viktor imagines that the cherry blossom trees must be full of tiny bulbs, still slumbering like sleeping beauties.

A shadow falls over his feet. He looks up, seeing the building’s lights reflect off large, angular glasses. Even without the warm layers covering them, Viktor can tell they’re rather chubby, and they fidget their hands in front of their stomach. The habit, built on shyness and nerves, brings afterimages to Viktor’s mind, and when he glances up, his companion tilts his head just so, and the glare is off his glasses.

Staring into him are perfectly ordinary brown eyes, eyes that sparkle with a light Viktor feels shower over his heart. He half-rises from the bench, eyes wide, mouth gaping.

His companion offers a small smile on pink lips. “I saw you skate,” he says. “Congrats on your win. Your dance was so beautiful, I couldn’t look away for a second.”

“Thank you,” Viktor breathes, more than actually says. He clears his throat, and runs a hand through his bangs to get a better look at the man in front of him, as if the shadows of the night are playing tricks on him.

They’re not. They _can’t_ be. His heart beats irregularly, threatening to burst from his chest, to settle in the warmth of the man’s pocket.

“Pink tones suit you better, I think,” the man says, the corners of his eyes crinkling in mirth. He’s wearing blues, and even the light scarf tied around his neck is a sweet, light-blue that complement the brown of his eyes.

Viktor sees the blush that dusts over the man’s round cheeks and the tips his ears, and he reaches out to brush back soft, dark hair to get a better look. “I don’t know,” he says, looking at the adorable pink flush, “I think that’s debatable.”

They both exhale, smiling.

“You were dazzling.”

“It wasn’t too sad?”

Viktor feels the man shake his head under his palm. He hasn’t pulled away from Viktor’s touch, the palm that cradles the side of his face. “No. There was sadness, but I think what I felt from your dance the most was… Hope. It felt like sunlight.” He laughs in his throat, and it’s low and warm and not a silver bell at all but Viktor shivers in delight at the sound. “The cameras caught you smiling.”

Viktor rolls his lips between his teeth, as if he, a skating legend, need actually be embarrassed about anyone seeing his smile. But it’s impossible to hide, and he lets out a small laugh.

“Yuuri,” his companion says.

“Like lily?”

“Like courage.”

 _Courage_ . It’s perfect. Strong and warm, a promise sealed in a name. Viktor _knew_ he’d chosen right. He finds his smile growing wider, trying out Yuuri’s name on his lips with this new knowledge. He says it again, and again, and once more, his breath stolen a little more with each time, and it brushes over Yuuri’s cheeks. Yuuri nudges their foreheads together, and he hums in response to every chant of his name.

The scent of cherry blossoms falls over Viktor’s skin, full in his lips when he kisses Yuuri under the spill of twinkling stars in the Tokyo sky. He embraces Yuuri tight, adoring the solid warmth that fills his arms, of being able to hold onto someone, and Yuuri hugs him too, tight and loving, never letting go.

**Author's Note:**

> All my fics are really special and precious to me but I poured a lot of my current worries and doubts into this fic. So it's extra special to me as it became something of a reflective piece of writing, but I hope it was enjoyable to read, even a little :') The song really ties in with the themes too (I just really want y'all to listen to it, haha).
> 
> By the way... If you want to know what Yuuri's wish was, it was that he could become human to love Viktor and live with him by his side. It was a scene in Yuuri's POV I had wanted to include, but ultimately decided it would break the flow of Viktor's story. But yes, that was his wish if you were curious (^_^)
> 
> I've made a [twitter moment](https://twitter.com/i/moments/994705316414550018) of all the super-cute art this fic has received! Please take a look at all the wonderful sakura!Yuuris that these awesome artists have made! Thank you so much for your love, guys ;w; <333


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